


To Catch A Memory

by LAWood



Category: White Collar
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt, Physical Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, kidnap, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 09:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13737930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LAWood/pseuds/LAWood
Summary: Neal is kidnapped. He is torn-down piece by piece and rebuilt by his captor as someone unrecognisable. Peter races to try and find Neal, but how much of him will be left to save?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning; The following work of fiction contains some content that some readers may find disturbing and/or upsetting including issues with mental health, emotional/physical abuse and suicide. Reader discretion is advised.
> 
> If you or someone you know is suffering with depression, abuse or suicide please contact a hotline in your area or go to http://www.sprc.org/organizations to find out more information.

**“It is not the bruises on the body that hurt. It is the wounds of the heart and the scars on the mind.”**

**― Aisha Mirza**

* * *

 

It was dark when Neal was taken. He has fallen asleep at the table while working on a forgery for a case when three men came and stole him away.

They hacked his anklet. It was disabled and left on the ground in a small pool of blood. Neal's blood.

When he woke up his head was pounding. He sat up and pain ignited down his spine. A groan left his lips and he clutched his aching head, feeling the hard mattress beneath him with his other hand and taking a silent moment to wonder where the hell he was.

He stood and then sat down again, pushed back by a sudden attack of dizziness brought on by standing up too fast. That, and the gash on his forehead.

The room was small, concrete and dark. Like a prison cell, but worse. Prison's have safety regulations, health standards. This place followed no such rules. The floor was dirty and cold, the walls were stained and crumbling and the cot in which he sat was harder than a brick wall.

Panic set in, digging claws into Neal's flesh and sending him flying to the door.

"Hey!" he shouted, launching his fist at the door. "What's going on? Let me out!"

He shouted for five minutes until the door opened and he fell to the ground in surprise. A burly, boulder of a man with a black mask over his face stepped in and edged to the side of the doorway, allowing a much smaller man with no mask to enter.

"Good morning, Neal. How are you?" His voice is soft like butter and his face is kind with deep brown eyes and laugh lines set gently into his flawless tanned skin.

But appearances can be deceiving, that Neal was very sure of, and he would not be tricked by a pretty face.

"Where am I?" He demanded. "Who are you?"

The man's expression deflated and he shook his head. "You have not earned my name yet. You will be punished for assuming your privilege."

He nodded to the much larger man who descended upon Neal like a lion after it's prey, pulling him up to his feet before beginning his attack.

He punched Neal in the stomach, again and again until he was on the ground and then he threw his boot into the con man's sternum, listening for a crack as a rib snapped in half.

"That's enough." The buttery voice broke through the violence and the attack came to an end, much to Neal's relief.

And suddenly he was alone again, cold, bleeding and breathless on the ground.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to call out.

But he wouldn't hear his cries.

_Peter._

_Help me._

* * *

 

"I cannot believe this!" Peter paced angrily across his kitchen floor.

"I'm sorry, hun." Elizabeth sighed, wanting to reach out to her enraged husband but knowing that she could do nothing to comfort him right now.

Neal was gone.

He cut his anklet and ran.

He betrayed Peter.

And now Peter was angry.

"I thought we had made progress." He stopped pacing and faced his wife, pain in his eyes. "I thought he trusted me—I thought I could trust him!"

El could say nothing. Because what would she say?

_I'm sorry_? Peter doesn't need that again.

H _e was a con man, you should have known better._ Just because it was true didn't mean he needed to hear that either.

"I thought he was my friend." Peter's voice shook.

She rushed to him, wrapping her arms around him because words would do him no good. But she could hold him.

Peter was shaking with rage and hurt. How could he do this? After all they've been through.

He would find Neal.

He would find him and send him back to prison.

Because that's what a federal agent does.

And Neal ran

That's what a con man does.

* * *

The concrete walls were closing in. How long had he been in this room? An hour? A day? A week?

Time was a constant blur of unending consciousness. Neal didn't even know when he was sleeping and when he was awake anymore.

He needed sound.

He needed voices that were not his own.

He needed Peter more than anyone and hoped with all his strength that his best friend was on his way to rescue him right now and could burst through the door at any moment.

But moments passed slowly.

And Peter never burst through the door.

* * *

 

"So the blood on the floor  _was_  Neal's?" Peter's brow creased as Diana handed him the crime scene report.

"Yup. And Peter…" Diana's raspy tone shifted, increasing in severity. "Spatter patterns indicate blunt force trauma."

Peter's blood froze in his veins, his whole body growing rigid. "Spatter patterns?" He repeated like he didn't understand what the words meant. "Like…"

"Neal's been kidnapped, Peter." Diana deduced. "He didn't cut his anklet, somebody hacked it and attacked him before taking him."

"How can you—"

"It's the only possibility."

Peter's brow arched. "It isn't the only possibility."

"It's the only one I believe." Diana stated. "Neal wouldn't run. Not now. Not after everything." Her tone and expression softened. "He wouldn't do that to us Peter. He wouldn't do that to you."

Peter wanted to believe that. But it would take more than blood on the floor to make him believe that he hadn't been betrayed. He'd been through it before, mislead and tricked by Neal. He wouldn't be made a fool of…not again.

But he couldn't turn away in ignorance either. If Neal really had been kidnapped, Peter had to help him. And quickly.

"Okay," he stood up. "get a team together, get forensics to go over the place again, this time looking for signs of a struggle, or anything else indicating that he was retrained or sedated in anyway before he was taken. Get Jones to look through old case files for anything suspicious. See if any names stick out or if anyone we've dealt with has a grudge against Neal."

"You  _do_  realise you're talking about Neal Caffrey right? Almost everybody he's ever met has a grudge against him." Diana pointed out.

"I know." Peter sighed. "Just do your best."

"On it, boss." Diana nodded and rushed from the room.

* * *

 

The man with the voice of butter returned to Neal just when he was starting to feel like he was going insane.

"How are you this morning?" he asked again.

"It's morning?" Neal slurred, tired and numb and unsure whether or not he was asleep.

"It is. Would you like to see?" The man said, his voice the most soothing and comforting tone.

Neal frowned, his senses returning to him as he forced his brain into gear.

_Come on, Neal. Get it together._

He needed to figure out what game he is playing before he would get any proper answers. He needed to think why he was taken, what this man wanted from him and only then would he figure out how to get out of here.

"Who are you?" he asked, testing the waters.

The man's expression flattened and Neal's gut dropped, the bruises burning in anticipation.

"I thought you had learned a lesson." He said, clicking his fingers.

The big man in the black mask returned.

"No, wait!" he said as he was left alone with his attacker. "No,  _please_!"

Begging does nothing to protect a man from pain, as Neal was finding out as the enormous fists pummelled into him again until the life was almost fading from him, oozing out of his pores like the blood that spilled from broken skin.

He was drowning in pain, unable to breath as waves crashed down on him and pulled him under. Air would not come to him but blood was leaving him in what felt like litres but was probably not as much.

As he was left alone on the cold, hard ground again he  _had_ learned something.

He was learning how to play this game.

He would not ask next time.

He would not be beaten again.

He would not play the role of the victim.

He would not play the role of the captured.

_He would not ask next time._

Time was passing again at a snail's pace and Neal's mind was getting further and further away from him.

There were no windows in his prison cell and he had no way to watch the time go by. He didn't even feel it. All he felt was the numb consciousness that would not leave him.

Even sleep offered no reprieve. He slept little and often, only drifting out of consciousness because he could not bear to stare at the ceiling any longer.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to hit something but he was so cold and in so much pain that his bones were aching even when he wasn't moving.

After his attack he was left on the floor where he remained because he could not get to his feet. He didn't even really realise that he was on the floor because all he could think about was how much pain he was in and how deep the crack on the ceiling was.

When the door opened again he looked up in hope because maybe it was Peter.

But of course, it wasn't.

"Good morning." The man said, his voice as soft as ever.

Every time he said it was a shock to Neal because how could it be morning already?

"Would you like to see the sunrise?"

Neal relished in the sound of his voice because at least it was something other than the constant sound of his own breathing.

Wait, did he say sunrise?

Neal nodded but he knew he wouldn't be able to get up on his own.

The man smiled and Neal felt the warmth in his gut. He approached the bleeding man and touched him softly on the arm, lifting him up into sitting position.

"Are you in pain?" he asked.

Neal nodded.

"Come, let's go see that sunrise."

It was like a beautiful woman at the end of a crowded bar. A precious gem in a dusty old cave. The sun peered up from beneath the sea, reaching up into the thin trails of clouds around it and covering all in its warm pink glow.

Neal wanted to cry. He wanted to throw his battered body to the ground and cry but he didn’t. Mainly because it would hurt too much to do so. But also because of what he promised himself.

He would not play the role of the victim.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” The man with the voice like butter whispered.

“Yes.” Neal breathed the word.

“Like a proud beast, she glows.”

Neal looked at the man through one eye, the other almost swollen shut. He was in awe of the sunrise, almost oblivious to Neal’s presence.

Next, he looked down at the cliff face below him. He could hurl himself off without anyone stopping him. It would be a way to get out of this nightmare. But within seconds he dismissed that thought. Suicide was not the way of Neal Caffrey. He was not defeated. And he would not be. He could still get out of this.

“Come, let’s go back inside.” The man said, and Neal was about to ask his name but he stopped himself.

_Don’t fall for it again._

So he turned back to the solitary house on the edge of the seaside cliff, wondering for a moment just how far from New York he was. The city called to him and withdrawal was setting in. If he had never knew New York he would probably have become a grafter, but the city was like a drug and he was hooked. Being parted from it made his gut clench in yearning.

He was led back into the house and took a moment to observe his surroundings. It was quaint, nicely decorated with mahogany and floral patterns. There were antiques everywhere, expensive ones. Neal had trained his eyes for years to spot such items and now they were all around him.

Questions bubbled up in his mind but he suppressed them because he knew where questions got him. He was a fast learner, especially with pain as a motive.

The man spun and flopped down in armchair without warning.

“Neal,” said he. “Take a seat.”

Neal sat down on the couch opposite, feeling like an antique himself as his bones and joints ached with every movement and he fought the urge to groan in pain.

The man smiled, and Neal felt that warm punch in his gut. It was nice, but he didn’t want it to be.

“My name is Richard Becker. Welcome to my home.”

Neal was stunned for a moment, but he was quick to recover himself, as usual.

“Couldn’t we have started with that instead of locking me in a room and beating me up?”

Richard seemed less than amused, which sent shivers down Neal’s spine.

“I needed you to understand where your place is before we could begin as sort of rapport.” He said, his words getting under Neal’s skin.

“My place?” He gripped the arm of the couch with what little strength he had. “What do you think I am? And who the hell do you think you are telling me where my place is?”

Neal could play games with dangerous people, but he was not about to be treated like a dog. This man didn’t want to play a game, he wanted to make Neal feel inferior, control and manipulate him. That wasn’t about to happen.

Richard’s expression flattened and he turned his head.

“Jeremy.” He said and moments later the large masked man returned to the room.

“No—” Neal whimpered but in mere seconds there were hands upon him. “No, please!” He found himself begging and didn’t care. He was too broken, in too much pain already to be beaten again.

Jeremy, the masked man, dragged Neal back to his prison cell and unleashed another attack. An apology bubbled up in Neal’s throat, along with several litres of blood, but he swallowed that and spat out the blood.

Begging was one thing. Apologising was entirely another.

When Jeremy was finished with him, Neal was unconscious, bleeding heavily and probably unable to walk.

* * *

 

The evidence was conclusive. Neal had been kidnapped. Guilt made its way through Peter’s body like steam through ice, devastating and demolishing all in its path.

“I doubted him.” Peter sighed, his hand rested on Satmo’s head as the dog perched his chin on his master’s lap. “After everything we’ve been through and all we’ve done for each other I’m still doubting him at the slightest hint of trouble.”

“He’s a con man.” El shrugged, stroking her husband’s arm in the only comfort she could offer. “It’s natural to suspect the worst of him. I think we all do.” She admitted, biting her lip.

She loved Neal, she really did. But she had done exactly the same as her husband had. The minute she heard that he was missing she assumed he had ran. He’d done it before, but did that mean it was okay to suspect he’d do the same again?

“Diana didn’t.” Peter remarked. “And I’m supposed to be his friend, I’m supposed to be the last person to doubt him, but instead I was the first one to turn against him. What does that say about my friendship?”

“Don’t do this to yourself, hun.” El sighed, but Peter was already spiralling.

“I’m always on at him to trust me, to trust the people who are trying to help him. And the minute he’s in real trouble I have absolutely no faith in him. I’m a hypocrite…and a jerk.”

“Hey, that’s my husband you’re talking about.” She slapped his arm gently. “Now you’ve got to snap out of this.”

“Hun, I—”

“No, it’s my turn to talk.” Said El. “Fact is we all have trouble trusting Neal, even Diana who must have been fighting her own doubts as well. He brought it on himself with his habits of deception and probably knows how we all feel. He would understand, Peter, and he’d forgive you which means that you have to forgive yourself, get up out of this spiral of self-loathing and go find our boy before it’s too late.”

Peter was frozen for a moment, and then he smiled.

“You’re right, hun. Of course you are.” He kissed her head. “Why are you always right?”

“Because one of us has to be.” She smiled.

That night Peter got no sleep. He poured over the case files and evidence reports like they were works of great literature, not even pausing when the coffee pot ran dry. There had to be some sort of clue. People don’t just get kidnapped by a stranger in the night, not people like Neal Caffrey. It had to be someone he knew, or someone that knew him. There had to be a reason, why.

* * *

 

Why was this happening to him? Why was Richard doing this to him? What had Neal ever done to deserve such pain?

When he awoke he couldn’t move. Panic crashed through him like a wave upon the sand as paralysis washed over his body. Had that last beating caused permanent damage? Was he now physically scarred by the trauma?

After a few minutes of blind fear, he started to regain feeling and movement came soon after. Relief was an understatement of what he felt. But then Richard and the masked Jeremy were at his door and he wanted to scream.

Neal awoke in a haze. There was blood in his eyes, stinging like a coat of razors between his eyelashes but he did not raise a hand to rub them. He raised nothing, not even his heartbeat quickened upon a return to consciousness.

He prepared himself for a few hours of solitude, perhaps even a few days depending on how badly he was injured. In his state, he couldn’t tell what injuries he had sustained. Everything was numb and covered in blood. But the door opened before him and Richard stepped through. There was something like sympathy in his expression. But Neal told himself that that couldn’t be right.

Richard walked to Neal and crouched down, stepping in his blood like it was nothing more than condensation that had dripped down from the cold ceiling.

He tutted and then spoke gently, “Why do you make me do this? Why do you beg for pain?”

Neal wanted to laugh, but didn’t for several reasons. Number one being that he simply couldn’t through fear that his lungs would collapse inside his ribcage. But another reason was that he was afraid to. Afraid that it would only bring him more pain and more violence which, contrary to Richard’s allegation, he was not begging for.

To Neal’s surprise, Richard reached out and took his shoulders gently, pulling him up into sitting position. He handled the injured body of Neal so softly, with such care, that the conman felt a lump in his throat. Not because he was sad but because the simple feel of a caring touch radiated through him like heat, reaching his heart and making him feel just how abused he has been lately.

“Alright,” Richard breathed, lifting Neal’s chin and looking at him in concern. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Neal smacked his lips in response, swallowing back blood and clenching his teeth together.

Then, Richard reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, making Neal flinch back. The jarring movement sent pain shooting through his bruised body and he winced quietly, still in a defensive stance with his arms raised in front of his face.

Without a sound, Richard put his hands on Neal’s forearms and pushed them down, so gently there was hardly any pressure at all. It felt, not like he was lowering Neal’s arms, but like they were doing it together, like their energies were somehow one and they moved _as one._

“Neal,” His name sent shudders down his spine when spoken in Richard’s velvety tone.

He looked up, his powder blue eyes wide but unfearing.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He said. “Not ever, do you understand?”

“But…” Neal barely got out the word before he stopped, his voice fading into Richard’s skin and causing the man’s eyes to sharpen in response.

“The only way you’re going to get hurt, is if you hurt yourself? Do you understand?”

Neal didn’t, but he nodded anyway.

Richard was trying to convince him that it was his own fault that he was being punished, that he was doing it to himself. That he was asking for it. He knew it wasn’t true, but doubt was creeping into his mind and guilt into his heart.

“Now, let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

* * *

 

Peter hurled the stapler at the glass wall, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces to mirror the shattering of his heart at the news.

Neal hadn’t been found yet.

It had been two weeks now. Withdrawal was setting in and Peter had found himself missing his best friend. Panic was rising too. With the passing of every hour, the chance of Neal’s survival lowered significantly.

“Peter!” A female voice pierced through his rage and he froze.

Under other circumstances, Diana wouldn’t raise her voice to her boss. But things had been different since Neal was taken. Peter didn’t lose control, he didn’t lose his cool but he had needed to be reined in more over the last two weeks than ever before.

El could barely handle him anymore. She would never leave him, but she needed help. She invited Diana and Jones over almost every night just to give Peter someone to talk to. Also, to give her a break. She felt guilty about pawning her husband off on other people, but there are instances of selfishness that cannot be denied.

Peter turned and glared at Diana in a moment of icy tension.  The very rotation of the earth seemed to halt as the two locked eyes and metaphorical horns.

He was the first to relent. His eyes hit the carpet and he let out a great sigh.

“I’m sorry.” Sighed the troubled agent. He raised his head and swivelled around to look at all the other gawking underlings that tried not to get caught staring at their superior. “I’m sorry, everyone…I’ll pay for it.” He said, pointing limply at the shards of glass on the floor.

“Peter.” Diana softened her tone and stepped forward towards her boss, turning her back to the rest of the bureau. “I think you should take some time off.”

“No, I—”

“A day or two.” She cut off his rushed protest. “At least tonight.” Said she, almost pleading with him.

“No,” Peter continued to shake his head like a pendulum swinging from the ceiling. “I can’t. I’m not giving up until we find him.”

“I’m not asking you to give up—”

“That’s exactly what you’re asking.” Peter felt his voice quiver and was angered by the appearance of weakness. “You don’t think I can see it? You’re all asking me to quit and give up on him. You don’t think he’s worth helping, do you?”

“How dare you? We all care about Neal.” Diana felt the flame of her own temper flicker but doused it quickly. One of them had to remain in control here.

“Well, start acting like it!” Peter roared. “He’s out there, possibly dead, possibly worse. And we’re standing around here raiding empty warehouses and interrogating clueless criminals.”

“It’s called investigating a kidnapping, Peter!” Diana’s tone sharpened like the crack of a whip. “Keep your emotions in check and try to remember you’re an FBI agent, for Christ’s sake, or I’ll report you and have you suspended until the end of the case.”

And with that she strode out of the room, keeping her demeanor cool and calm until the elevator doors closed and she fell against the wall with a shaky sigh.

* * *

 

Richard was sat too far away.

He was at the opposite end of the three-seater couch but it was still not close enough. Neal felt weird about it, but he wanted him closer. He put it down to a lack of contact and a want for a kind hand and locked the thoughts away.

“Would you like a drink, Neal? Some coffee, tea, something stronger?” Richard offered, his words kind and his tone soft.

“Coffee…would be great.” For a moment he forgot how to form words, so consumed by Richard that the structure of the English language evaded him for a soundless second.

Richard nodded and disappeared out of the room for three of the slowest moments in Neal’s life. He was alone, and it was slowly killing him like a needle in the arm, draining the blood from his veins.

When he returned, Neal struggled to contain his delight.

“Well, that’s a bright smile.” Richard remarked, modelling a much softer smile of his own.

The grin slipped off of Neal’s face like uncooked spaghetti off of a wall. He cursed himself and questioned the feeling of joy in his chest. Why was he happy that Richard had come back? Did he like Richard?

What possible reason could Neal have for enjoying the company of the psycho who kidnapped him and ordered several beatings for him at the hands of his brute of a bodyguard?

But just as Neal asked this of himself, Richard sat down beside him and his smile spread across his face once more.

“I’ll put the coffee on the table, as it’ll still be quite hot.” He said, reaching over and setting the two cups on the table.

As he sat back, Neal leaned forward, desperate for eye contact, or another form of acknowledgement.

Then he got his wish and more. Richard turned in his seat and leaned in, inches from Neal. So close that the heat on their skin was transferable.

“You wanted me to look at you, didn’t you?” Richard breathed, his voice hitting Neal like music.

He nodded, panic rising in his chest.

“You missed me when I left, didn’t you?”

Neal nodded again, slower this time as realisation set in.

Richard moved closer, turning his face and aiming for Neal’s neck.

“You understand your place now, don’t you?”

Neal trembled as he felt Richard’s breath on his neck. The urge to pull away, to leap from the couch and scramble to safety was overwhelming but he was frozen in place. Unable to move.

His eyes widened as Richard’s lips made contact with the softest part of his neck.

“You’re mine now.” Richard’s voice adopted a previously undiscovered edge as he growled into Neal’s skin before opening his mouth and sinking his teeth in.

For a horrified moment, Neal felt nothing but shock and he gasped as Richard bit him. Then pain hit. Neal grasped Richard’s shoulder and cried out but the pain increased. Richard leaned in harder, pushing his fingers into Neal’s skin and worsening the bruises already in place.

Neal cried out again before Richard pulled back and held his face inches from his terrified face.

“You’re pathetic.” Richard scoffed, blood trickling down his chin and skin caught between his teeth.

Unexpectedly, the words hurt. As angry and terrified as Neal was that this man had just taken a bite out of his neck, there was a need for his approval and the fact that he didn’t have it was like a knife to his chest.

Rochard ran his thumb over Neal’s throat with just enough pressure not to choke him but too much to be comfortable.

“But you’ll learn.” He said before standing up and wiping his mouth on the back of his throat. “Jeremy.” He said, which filled Neal with terror.

“No, please! I’ll do whatever you say!” Neal fell painfully to his knees in front of Richard.

Richard looked down at him, lifted his chin with a single finger and said, “He won’t hurt you, don’t worry. You’ve done well.”

The push/pull nature of Richard was giving Neal mental whiplash but he was grateful of the compliment.

Then Richard crouched in front of Neal, very close, and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow. And then I will take you.”

“What?” Neal was as much horrified as he was intrigued and that horrified him even more.

“You will never leave this place.” His fingertip traced over Neal’s throat as he whimpered. “I am your only friend.”

He was lying. Wasn’t he? What about Peter? He’d forgotten about him already, how could he?

“I am your world now.”

No, Peter would come for him soon. Or would he? Had Peter forgotten about him too?

_Oh, God, please don’t let it be true._

“You will never be good enough.” His hand was around Neal’s neck, tightening. “But you’ll spend the rest of your days trying.”

Neal couldn’t breathe.

“ **Or else**.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Love recognises no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope. – Maya Angelou**

* * *

 

2 years later

 

‘I’m stumped.’ Jones shakes his head, staring at the forged piece of art on the conference room table. ‘We’ve eliminated every possible suspect. Every one of them is either in prison or ruled out by skill level and access.’

Peter shakes his head. ‘In that case,’ he says, pulling his jacket over his shoulders, ‘Calzone anyone?’

The team break for lunch; Peter, Jones and Diana leaving together to get calzones from their new favourite street vendor but Peter lingers in the door way. Just for a moment. That dizzy feeling of forgetting something when you’re not sure what it is you’ve forgotten takes a weak hold before it falls away. He shrugs and leaves the office.

Down on the street the three take a seat on the sticky metal table and chairs just next to the calzone stand. ‘So,’ Diana says, her mouth half full, ‘Peter, you must have a working theory?’

He shrugs, his food sinking down his throat. ‘Not a clue. After lunch we’ll go back to the evidence and work on a new lead. We must be missing something.

His phone buzzes on the table and his wife’s name pops up on the screen. Switching the button that switches it to silent mode, he shoves the phone in his inside pocket and carries on with his lunch. The action doesn’t go unnoticed, but Jones and Diana are not about to question it. Peter and El are on the rocks. Everyone knows. No one mentions it. It’s sad really, when a couple breaks up but neither has done anything wrong.

They haven’t broken up just yet, but it’s coming. They don’t hug, they don’t talk, they don’t even sleep in the same bed anymore. Now it’s just a waiting game until one of them finally lets go and accepts the fact that they can’t even look at each other anymore. Jones’s money is on El getting sick of Peter’s moping and leaving.  Diana is convinced that Peter will push El away and leave the bureau, maybe even moving out of state to get away from everything.

Either way, everybody knows but nobody speaks of it.

Much like another topic, one that is even more forbidden to speak of than Peter and El’s failing marriage. Everybody in the team, and in Peter’s life, knows the rule.

**Do not talk about Neal Caffrey.**

* * *

 

‘You know I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.’ Diana says, her hand over her eyes by request.

Mozzie crosses his arms firmly, standing in his new top-secret apartment staring at the forged Rossetti. ‘No, I don’t know the artist.’ He says, throwing the piece, inside the zip lock bag, down onto the table. ‘You can go now.’ He shifts in place, not taking his eyes off of the agent.

‘Are you sure?’ Diana asks, blindly reaching out for the bag, ‘Did you look at it?’

‘Of course I looked,’ Mozzie scoffs, ‘It’s flawless. Probably the best I’ve ever seen but I don’t recognise the signature. My guess is that it’s a newcomer, and a good one at that…you say this is the third piece of art themed around Persephone?’

‘Yeah, the Greek Goddess of Hell. Why?’

‘Well, she’s not just the Goddess of the Underworld. She’s actually the daughter of Zeus and Demeter, the Goddess of Harvest, making her the Goddess of springtime, flowers and vegetation.’ Diana mentally settles in for a long and pointless story, ‘But, according to legend, Zeus allowed Hades, his brother and God of the Underworld, to take her as his own, which he did, against her will. He kidnapped her and took her down into the underworld with him, causing all vegetation to stop growing due to her despair. Eventually, the cries of the starving people, not able to eat due to the lack of growth in their crops, drove Zeus to order Hades to release her.

‘I don’t know what to be more disgusted by, the incest or the kidnapping. Nope, definitely the incest.’

‘It’s not a pretty story.’

‘Does it help us find our forger? We’ve been working on a Greek Mythology enthusiast theory but it’s not getting us anywhere.’

‘The fascination with the idol is certainly curious, but I can’t say I understand the relevance.’

Diana sighs and picks the bag up, her hand still over her eyes. ‘Well, thanks anyway.’

‘Wait,’ Mozzie says, almost reaching out before catching himself. ‘I know you were probably hoping I wouldn’t ask this, but-‘

‘No. I haven’t.’ She answers sternly, not waiting for the question to hit the air.

She couldn’t bear to hear it.

Mozzie nods and drops his shoulders. ‘Shot in the dark.’

Diana’s phone started ringing, sending sharp echoes around the small empty room. ‘Berrigan.’ She answers. ‘What? Where?’ Mozzie leans in to listen to the phone call. ‘Alright, I’m on my way.’

‘What’s that?’ He asks.

‘Another Persephone piece. A sculpture this time.’

‘Let me guess, Bernini.’ He says, the name sounding a hint more familiar than he was expecting before saying it out loud.

‘Yeah, the Rape of Persephone apparently. Can’t wait to see this.’ She frowns.

Mozzie feels his heart pound but holds his tongue. ‘Can I come?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m intrigued. Call me an expert witness.’

‘I don’t know, Mozzie. I doubt Peter will want to see you.’

‘Right,’ Mozzie nods. ‘Of course, I get that…then just answer me one question.’

* * *

 

‘That’s horrific.’ Jones shakes his head, looking up at the Baroque marble.

‘But incredible.’ Peter breathes, ‘Just look at the way the skin is pushed in like it’s really being grabbed. How do they even do that?’ He catches Jones’s glare, ‘Well, obviously the subject matter is dark, but you have to respect the artistry.’

‘Since when?’ Jones scoffs. ‘It’s still a sculpture about incestuous rape.’

‘Will you two shut up?’ Diana says, skulking around the back of the massive statue.

‘What are you looking for?’ Peter asks.

She doesn’t answer him, not wanting to mention Mozzie’s hunch if it turned out to be false. She pulled the step ladder that the curator had left out to the back of the sculpture and climbed up, studying Persephone’s hair. Her fingers laced the smooth marble, searching and scanning. Amongst the twisted curls, just like Mozzie said, there was a tiny gladiolus, its petals barely visible in the carved marble.

_‘If I were Benini, I would have given Persephone something to keep her going. Some sort of symbol to show that she’s not just the weak damsel her uncle and father think she is. She’s strong and resilient and no matter what Hades does to her, she’ll always have her integrity.’_

Diana steps slowly off the ladder and turns away, walking towards the door.

‘Diana, where are going?’ Jones asks.

‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ Peter calls after her.

She makes it out the door before she cries, just managing to hold in her anguish until the door swung closed.

Hands land gently on her shoulders and Peter twists her round, his face creased. ‘Diana, what is it?’ he cries.

‘It’s him,’ Her voice cracks and she gulps for air. ‘Peter it’s him.’

* * *

 

‘You’re saying that you think Neal’s alive just because you found a flower carved into a statue’s hair.’ Jones scowls at her from across his desk.

‘Not just any flower, a flower that means strength and integrity. I’m telling you, Jones, it’s exactly what Mozzie said Neal would have done if he was to create that exact piece. You can’t tell me that’s a coincidence’

‘Since when are we taking Mozzie seriously? We only put up with him because he was Neal’s friend.’

‘You know that’s not true.’

‘Why are _you_ his advocate all of a sudden?’

‘Oh, what does it matter?’ She stands up, pulling at her hair. ‘We all gave up on him. We all assumed him dead but he’s not! He’s alive and forging and we have to find him and bring him back.’

‘What if he doesn’t want to come back? What if he faked a kidnapping to make us think he was in danger when he actually just wanted to escape and turn back to his old ways?’

‘Either way, he’s alive, Jones! Why aren’t we out there looking for him?’

‘Because we spent two years looking for him and Peter-‘ He stops himself and pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing slow. ‘Peter can’t handle this anymore.’

‘But Neal-‘

‘We are not mentioning this to Peter. Not on some crackpot criminal’s foreign memory of a conversation he and Neal may or may not have had. That’s the end of it.’ Jones turns away from her to see Peter standing in the doorway.

His face was pale and empty. ‘I want to talk to Mozzie.’

‘But, Peter-‘

‘Get Mozzie in here. Now!’

* * *

 

The skin of his thumb chipped away and dropped to the ground. Blood smeared across the marble and he wiped it away with a cloth, leaving his wound to bleed down his forearms.

He must finish it. Sundown was the deadline and it is fast approaching five o’clock. His fingertips are so worn he can barely feel the sculpture beneath them. His vision is blurred by the film of dust that showers him at all hours. These are all symptoms he is used to, even once longed for, but without being permitted to take a break, they have become his torture.

_I have to finish. Just five more minutes and I’ll be done._

Five turn into ten, which turn into twenty. Sweat drops from his chin down his neck as he carefully carves into the marble.  The finish line stays just out of reach it seems no matter what he does and with the clink of his chisel the door swings open.

Neal freezes in place, straddled across the step ladder and his whole body starts to shake.

‘Very nice.’ The velvety smooth voice of Richard sends shudders across his arms and back. ‘She is remarkable.’ Touching the delicate little carved flower, his sharp grin makes a reappearance. ‘A signature? How quaint. I’ll let you keep it.’ He grabs hold of Neal’s chin, pressing hard into already bruised skin, ‘If you do something for me…’

* * *

‘I should never have said anything, I’m sorry.’ Mozzie shakes his head, fidgeting with his watch as Peter’s eyes bore into him.

‘Tell me exactly what he said to you about this piece and any like it.’ Peter orders, calmly and quietly like everything is normal.

Like there isn’t a chance that he could get Neal back.

‘Peter, please, forget I said anything. I’m sorry, I’m just projecting. I want so bad for some sort of sign that he’s…’ Mozzie’s voice falters and he stops, looking down at the table. ‘Just forget it.’

‘Mozzie, you tell me what he said. Right now.’ Peter’s tone hardens.

He sighs. ‘Like I told she-suit,’ He gestures to Diana, ‘A hundred years ago, Neal and I were considering the piece in question.’

‘The Rape of Persephone,’ Jones clarifies, ignoring the very noticeable wince Peter suffers at the sound of Neal’s name.

‘Yes.’ Mozzie nods. ‘We were discussing the how the maiden is portrayed and how we would have done it differently. I said I would have made Hades look less like the crazy guy who lives in the subway and Neal said that he would have given Persephone a token to remind her, and others, that she was not just some damsel in distress and that no matter what horrors she endured in the underworld in her uncle’s captivity she would keep her integrity and strength.’

‘And a flower is supposed to represent that?’

‘Not just any flower. A gladiolus. It’s sharp leaves and bright colours. It’s a strong flower for a strong and powerful goddess.’

‘This is all conjecture.’ Peter says. ‘How do we know that’s the token he would have used? And why have we found several other pieces of art all of the same Greek Goddess and haven’t been able to identify the forger for any of them?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

Kneeled down in the middle of the room, blood running down his body like streams down a mountain, Neal presented his newest work to his master.

Richard circled the easel slowly, ‘Prometheus being chained by Vulcan.’ He nods, ‘You’ve found a new muse it seems.’

‘Yes master.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Yes master.’

‘Do you know why you are here, Neal?’

Neal’s eyes involuntarily widened. A feeling long lost to him stirred inside his chest. ‘No master.’

‘Prometheus was punished for stealing fire from the Gods and giving it to the mortals.’

‘Yes master.’

‘Do you agree that he should be punished? Do you think this was a crime?’

Neal didn’t move. He had learned not to form an independent thought. He had learned to be lead always by his master. Yes is always the answer, until it isn’t.

‘You, like Prometheus, have a great gift.’ Richard crouches in front of Neal and touches his chin softly. Affectionately. Vomit rose in his throat at Richard’s touch, but he leaned into it. Affection was his volatile lover. Hard to come by but often unwanted. ‘But, also like Prometheus, you chose to share your gift with the mortals. The other side. You turned against your own kind, people like you who have the same gift, and gave it away to those unworthy.’ Richard’s hand quickly formed a hard slap which hit Neal so hard his neck cracked. ‘For this you must be punished.’

‘Yes master.’ The feeling which had stirred had now gone. That feeling, Neal had identified, was hope. 

* * *

 

‘So let me get this straight…Neal is Persephone?’ Jones frowns.

‘Who let him off his leash?’ Mozzie waves the comment off.

‘I’ll leash you-‘ Diana holds Jones’s reaction at bay and motions for Mozzie to elaborate.

‘I believe, and for the record always have, that Neal is being held captive. But, I also believe that he is in training.’

‘In training for what?’ Peter asks, not taking his eyes off him.

‘Forgery.’

‘But Neal is already world class.’ Peter says.

‘Right…but not perfect. ‘ Mozzie says. ‘I think that someone is using Neal as their own personal forger, training him and forcing him to create works like these for their financial gain.’

‘And how did you come to this conclusion?’ Diana folds her arms.

Mozzie’s hands brush over the photographs of the Persephone pieces. ‘It’s all here.’ The three agents glare at the art work. ‘Can’t you see the anguish? The sadness and isolation?’

‘Yeah, in Persephone. How can you possibly see Neal in all that?’ Jones asks.

Mozzie looks at Peter. ‘You see him, don’t you?’

Peter shakes his head, ‘I don’t know what I see.’

‘It’s Neal. It’s gotta be.’

‘But what if it’s not? What if it’s just some newcomer with a passion for Greek Tragedies?’

‘Then Neal truly is lost.’ Mozzie murmurs. ‘But don’t you want to find out?’

Peter stands up. ‘I can’t. I can’t get back into this, I just-‘

‘Jones and I will look into this. You don’t have to.’ Diana says. ‘We’ll scope things out and get back to you.’

‘And I’m supposed to what? Just wait to see if it’s him? Just wait to find out if he really is…’

Silence falls over the room.

‘Fuck it.’ Peter mutters, eyes shut. ‘It’s a working lead.’

‘Peter, we can’t,’ Jones breathes.

‘If you’ve got a better theory, Jones,  I’m all ears.’ Jones doesn’t respond. ‘Mozzie, we’re gonna need your help.’

‘And I thought my days helping the suits were over.’

* * *

 

The jangling sound of Richard’s belt buckle echoes through Neal’s bones. He lies curled on the floor, shivering though he isn’t cold.

‘That concludes today’s lesson.’ Richard says with a sniff, buckling up his belt before he opens the door to leave. ‘I want another sculpture by this time tomorrow. Don’t care what it is as long as it’s expensive.’

‘Yes master.’ Neal’s voice quivers, barely making it through the air to Richard’s ears before he leaves and the door slams behind him.

Neal doesn’t move for what feels like five minutes but is actually thirty. He shifts slowly onto his broken knees and up to his feet, his body aching and bleeding. He is used to the pain but far from numb to it. It’s more like a roommate. Unappreciated but always there.

He gets to work on his next sculpture. Richard has left him an impressive block of marble and he immediately envisions his next masterpiece before setting to work.

He doesn’t stop. Not for water. Not for food. Not for sleep or rest. He works flat out for twenty-four hours and when Richard arrives he presents it as he always does. On his knees.

‘For you, master.’

Richard inspects Neal’s forgery of The Laocoon Coop, circling the work and touching all the nooks and crannies. Once he is satisfied he decides on his verdict. He lifts Neal by the throat and smashes his head into the marble, hard enough to snap off the outstretched limb of the father in the piece.

‘You think this is acceptable? You think I spend all this money supplying you with your tools and a nice place for you to work to get this crap in return?

‘I’m sorry, master.’ Neal slurs his words, his vision discoloured and severely blurred.

‘You will make me something else and you will do it in two hours.’

‘But-‘

‘What did you just say?’ Richard straddles Neal and wraps his hands around his neck. ‘I’m sure we covered back-talk in your induction.’ He growls, tightened his choking grip. Neal tries to form an apology but can’t. His air completely cut off. ‘I have a buyer coming in two hours expecting something grand and you have the nerve to talk back to me after you show me this piece of shit?’ Neal’s vision starts to fade to black, his fingertips numb. ‘You ungrateful, useless, pathetic…’

Neal’s arms drop to the ground and Richard lets go.

* * *

 

 ‘You sure you can do this?’

‘Peter, this is not my first time going undercover.’ Jones shakes his head.

‘I know…sorry.’ Peter corrects himself, stepping back and letting Jones prepare himself.

Once they team started looking for a supplier rather than an artist it wasn’t long before they found the new kid on the block. Dmitri Ricardo, probably an alias, has been selling forged art for only a year. All perfect, all without any signature from the real artist.

‘The pace that these are coming out is incredible.’ Mozzie notes, ‘This guy either has a collection on his hands that he’s releasing one-by-one or he has Ne—I mean, or he’s making new ones one after the other. Either way, he’s definitely got his M.O. down to a tee.’

‘One theory at a time, Mozzie.’ Peter tells him, not daring to explore the Neal theory any more without any solid, in his mind, proof.

‘Let’s run through the plan one more time.’ Diana says, checking Jones’s microphone.

‘We meet Ricardo at the pre-planned location. I buy the art, plant the tracker and come back to the van. We follow Ricardo back to wherever he keeps the rest of his pieces and then we bust him.’ Jones says, mentally ticking off each stage of the plan as he says it.

‘But what is he goes back home or something, not where he keeps all his stuff? How will you know?’

‘We bust him either way and then get a warrant to search his home and all other owned or rented property.’ Peter says. ‘If he leads us right to the jackpot that would be an added bonus.’

‘Peter, you’re still okay with staying behind right?’ Diana clarifies, studying his expression.

He stops, catches himself and starts to nod. ‘Yeah, oh yeah, I’m good. I’ll…work on getting that warrant.’

‘So we’re all clear?’ Diana says and they all nod. ‘Okay,’ she turns to Jones. ‘Let’s go catch Hades.’

Peter watches them leave and sits down at the conference table. He can’t bring himself to stand again, not just yet. The weight of possibility sits heavily on his shoulders and it’s all he can do to remain upright under it.

Mozzie offers some words of comfort but they bounce right off so he takes his leave to go and get the two some lunch. When he leaves the silence cloaks around Peter and he closes his eyes. Suddenly its two years ago. The wounds are fresh. Hope is dancing just out of his reach. He can still feel Neal out there somewhere, his hands desperate to reach out to him.

His phone buzzes again. It’s El again. But this time he picks it up. ‘El?’

‘It’s about time, Peter. Why have you been ignoring me? I’m getting really sick of-‘

‘El he might be alive.’

This statement is met with silence and Peter holds his breath throughout, waiting for his wife’s joy to meet his own and bring it to the surface.

‘Peter, not this again.’ She says, her voice so weak it’s almost a whisper.

‘But El—‘

‘I cant do this anymore.’ She says. He can hear that she’s starting to cry.

‘Honey, no. He really might be this time...’

‘I’m sorry, Peter. I’m done.’ She sobs.

‘El, wait!’ He cries out but she’s already gone.

 


	3. Chapter 3

She sits out in the garden, Satchmo whining at her side. Peter has tried to call eight times in the last minute. He’s texted her several times too.

_ ‘Hon, I’m sorry. Please talk to me.’ _

_ ‘Please don’t do this, I’m begging you.’ _

_ ‘El, I need you please.’ _

_ ‘Just talk to me please.’ _

She can’t bring herself to even look. Her plan was to sit outside with a glass of wine and think about things before she does anything on impulse. That’s not her style. But the wine sits there in the sun, untouched. Her mouth is numb, not wanting to eat or drink anything at all. Her stomach is under attack by nerves and pain, clearly not tolerable to food or drink either.

And so she just sits there, thinking about that packed suitcase and whether she has the courage to pick it up and take it anywhere. Courage is exactly what she needs. Courage to leave her home and her life. Courage to make a change. Courage to break Peter’s heart. Courage to live with herself afterwards.

Could she live with herself? She took vows. She swore never to hurt him and at the time she thought it was ridiculous, the idea that she would ever intentionally cause him pain. But today that is something she contemplates. Whether to stay under the veil of sorrow which they currently live, avoiding each other and bickering at the slightest word. Or leave. But how could she? After Neal…Peter has lost so much already. She knows he’s probably scared that she will leave too. Just like Neal. But does that mean she has to sacrifice her own happiness? Just live in misery so that Peter doesn’t feel so alone. That’s not a life.

With her head already spinning, she takes a sip of wine, hoping it will calm her down and slow her brain a little bit. This is a big decision, it can’t be made in a minute.

* * *

 

‘I want you to line up the shot.’

He does.

‘Pull back the hammer.’

He does.

‘And squeeze the trigger.’

He freezes.

This is Neal’s least favourite exercise. Because it always ends in punishment.

‘I said,’ Richard repeats. ‘Squeeze the trigger.’

Neal’s muscles flinch but he doesn’t do it. He can’t. How can he kill an innocent old lady just sat on her favourite park bench, reading her favourite comics out of her favourite newspaper. He’s seen her before, even talked to her, almost every day on his way to the office with Peter. All that time ago…

‘Are you going to disobey me again?’

‘I’m sorry, master. I can’t.’ He exhales sharply and steps away from the edge of the roof.

‘We do this every week. And you still can’t follow a simple instruction?’ He sighs. ‘Fine, you leave me no choice. Aim the gun at your head.’

Neal does as he is told. Sweat runs down his face as he presses the barrel of the gun against his temple. The wind picks up suddenly and takes his breath, causing him to pull harder for air as his heart starts to pound.

‘Squeeze the trigger.’

Neal is not afraid of dying anymore. He’s afraid of death, but not of the end of his life. Endless days trapped in a windowless room, carving and painting until his hands bleed and then to be beaten and punished whether the piece was good or bad. He has been told he’s worthless so many times he believes it. He has been controlled and punished for so long that he follows his orders now without question. Except when it comes to murder. Suicide on the other hand…

The gun clicks as he squeezes the trigger but nothing happens. Neal’s heart falls in disappointment. The gun wasn’t loaded.

‘You were actually going to kill yourself when I still have further use for you? You selfish, worthless…’ Richard catches himself and takes a deep breath. ‘Back to the car, now. I have an appointment.’

Something else Neal had learned during his captivity. There was never a right answer.

* * *

Jones steps out of the black Mercedes and buttons his jacket, brushing down the designer fabric. He makes his way to the meeting place, checking his surroundings as he goes. He walks under the gate and through the underground parking lot. It was a pretty cliché place to meet, but Mozzie said it’s often the case with newcomers, eager to mimic what they see in the movies and what they think White Collar crime will be like.

The man identified as Dmitri Ricardo stands by a white town car, calmly awaiting Jones’s approach. The chit-chat is minimal. Ricardo doesn’t seem the least bit suspicious or interested in his buyer and instead rushes through the pleasantries and practically snatches Jones’s hand off during the exchange. It was quick, but Jones managed to get the tracker into Ricardo’s pocket as he pulled him in for a half-hug, something Ricardo was not appreciative of.

He slips quickly back into his car and drives away, kicking dust up in the air as his tyres squeal on their way out.

‘He didn’t waste any time then.’ Diana remarks as Jones pulls up next to the van.

‘Couldn’t away fast enough.’ Jones shakes his head. ‘We need to get this piece tested as soon as possible. How’s Peter getting on with that warrant.’

‘Everything’s in place. We prove that’s a fake and that it’s made by the same artist and the others and we’ve got everything we need.’

‘So, you really think the guy’s got Neal as his own personal forgery factory?’

‘I don’t know,’ Diana sighs, ‘But something is definitely up…and if it has something to do with Neal…’

‘You never believed that he ran, did you?’ Jones says.

She shakes her head in response.

‘Not even for a second?’

‘A few years ago, that would have been my first assumption. But now…I mean, the fact that he left Mozzie behind was one thing…but to leave Peter? Without a goodbye, a message, a clue...’

‘He ran before without saying goodbye.’

‘Yeah, when a deal for his freedom fell through. And even then, Peter practically told him to run.’

‘Yeah, I guess…’

‘He’s a criminal, and we’re agents…but we’re family. Don’t you feel the same way?’

Jones clears his throat. ‘Yeah…I guess I do.’

‘Then let’s go find out what happened to him.’

* * *

 

‘Did you get the money?’ Richard talks loudly on the phone. A sign of confidence, Neal deduces. ‘And the buyer, how was he? What do you mean, what do I mean? Was he suspicious?’ Neal shivers, touching his temple where he can still feel the ghost of the gun he pointed at himself a few hours earlier. ‘Fine, whatever, just get back here as soon as possible, I have work to do.’

He hangs up the phone and approaches Neal. ‘Now, now…what’s with all this.’ He touches Neal’s arm gently. ‘Sssh, you’re trembling.’

‘I’m sorry, master.’ He tries to stop shaking but he can’t. He can’t catch his breath or stop his heart from pounding so hard and so fast and—

Richard sits down beside Neal, against the wall of his little room and wraps an arm round him, pulling him in. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe with me. This is where you belong, don’t forget that. Take comfort in it, Neal. I have given you a place in this world. A true purpose.’

‘Yes, master. Thank you, master.’ He nods frantically.

He brushes Neal’s hair, dried blood flaking off and onto his shoulders. ‘Don’t you feel safe?’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Don’t you appreciate everything I do for you? Feed you, shelter you, provide you with clean water and enough art supplies to keep you busy for the rest of your life?’

Neal doesn’t respond but a tear stings his eye before it falls down his face.

‘Sssshhh,’ Richard rubs Neal’s arms. ‘It’s all right. I’ll always be here with you. I’ll never leave you.’

Jeremy burst through the door, ‘Boss, we’ve got a problem.’ Neal presses his forehead to his knees and shuts his eyes, not wanting to look at or hear that man.

‘What is it?’ Richard barks. Jeremy holds up the FBI tracker that was dropped into his pocket during the exchange. ‘Oh, I see…Well, Neal,’ he strokes Neal’s hair, ‘unfortunately it seems like our little lifelong plan we had might require a little bit of re-thinking.’

* * *

 

‘Gimme something good, Jones.’ Peter says, spinning into the conference room.

‘You mean apart from all this sweet, rich choco-‘

‘Focus, Clinton.’ Peter cuts him off.

‘Right, running the results of the tests on the paintings now.’

Peter rubs his hands together, ‘ Diana, how’s the tracker looking.’

‘Subject seems to have stopped. Looks like he’s arrived home if that’s where he was heading.’

‘It’s now or never, people, give me some good news.’

Jones jumps to the laptop, ‘results are in,’ the room is silent, waiting in trepidation as Jones decodes the results. ‘The piece is 100% fake,’ he says. A collective gasp follows, ‘And a match for the other pieces.’

‘That’s it. We move in.’ Peter claps his hands and heads for the door.

‘Peter,’ Diana calls after him, ‘You sure you don’t want to sit this out too?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not this time. I’m taking this guy down, whether he has Neal or not.’

* * *

It’s silent up here. Silent and cold. Everything his home for the last God knows how long had it been. He closes his eyes and raises his head, breathing in the air that’s much clearer than it is down on the streets. The wind billowed through his shirt and through his hair.

_ It’s important to savour the moment while you’re up there _ , he was told,  _you’ll never get another opportunity, so make the most of it._

And that’s what he was doing. Richard was right, he’d never get another chance to kill himself.

The little ants scurried around trying to find a way up to him. Trying to devise a strategy to get him down. It wouldn’t work. He had to do this. That was the deal.

_ You’re nothing without me, Neal. You know that, don’t you? _

_ Yes, master. _

_ You might as well not be here if anything happens to me. _

_ Yes, master. _

_ In fact, why don’t we make a little deal? If anything happens to me, you’ll commit suicide. _

_ Yes, master. _

_ That’s the ultimate act of love, isn’t it Neal? You do love me don’t you? _

_ Yes, master. _

_ Good. _

The sky stares back at him, smiling with him. His last moments are going to be perfect. Pink and orange are the backdrop to  _Le Mort de Caffrey_  and it couldn’t be more beautiful if he had painted the horizon himself. Okay, maybe a little bit.

This was what he was meant to do. Everything in his life had lead up to this moment. Proving to Richard that he was completely committed to him would be the greatest thing he ever did. He was right, all that time spent forging great artworks for his own benefit was selfish. Wrong. He was born to help Richard. To work with him. Without that he was useless. Meaningless. Richard was right, without him he was nothing.

Not yet, but he would be soon enough. All he has to do is step forward. One little step and that was it. It would be over and he would be complete.

* * *

 

‘Neal!’ Peter shrieks as he sees the man on the ledge. He’s metres away from him, the wind trying to tackle him to the ground as he fights to remain standing. ‘Nea—that’s you, isn’t it?’ He’s breathless, just about preventing his knees from buckling under him. ‘Neal, please—say something!’

The man turns around and it’s not Neal. Not anymore. He’s thin, gaunt even, and his hair is grown out and scruffy, not tousled in that effortless but glamorous way that Peter could never understand. The blue in his eyes, usually so bright and full of energy, and dull and almost lifeless. Peter has to stop himself from turning away from the awful sight before him. That’s not Neal. It can’t be.

‘What has he done to you?’ He breathes without thinking, unable to stop himself from trembling.

‘Get back,’ Neal warns him like he warned all the others. No one will interfere.

‘Neal, it’s me…’ He takes a careful step forward.

‘Get back!’ Neal cries, waving his arm at Peter and causing him to rock in place.

Peter throws his hands up, ‘okay, it’s okay. I’ll stay here then,’ he says softly.

Neal continues to watch him for a few more seconds and then turns away again. He’s ruining everything. He’s not supposed to be here. No one is. This was for him to do alone. For Richard.

‘Can we talk for a minute?’ Peter tries to channel his training, putting the fact that the potential jumper is his best friend.

‘No, go away!’ Neal shouts, balling his hands into fists.

‘Afraid I can’t do that, Neal,’ Peter shakes his head and fighting the urge to run to him and pull him off the ledge right now.

‘Leave me alone! I need to do this alone!’

‘You don’t need to do this at all,’

‘Yes I do!’

‘Why?’

‘You don’t understand! You don’t know!’ Neal cries, closing his eyes and pretending that he’s not here, ‘Just go away!’

‘Neal—‘

‘Don’t!’ Neal shouts into the air, his arms and shoulders tensing. ‘You. Don’t. Know. You. Weren’t. There.”

His words cut Peter open. Mostly because they were ripped right out of his own mind. He wasn’t there. The blood on Neal’s shirt, in his hair and on his skin tell a story Peter wasn’t part of. A story he should have stopped from being written.

Neal was content in the shadows, only running into problems with the law, until Peter dragged him out into the light and flaunted his accolades as an asset of the FBI. He practically advertised his services to any psychos who needed a monkey to chain to a typewriter and create their very own Shakespeare copies. It was Peter’s fault and he wasn’t there.

Neal turns around for a moment of silence, considering the man in the dishevelled suit, ‘We made a deal.’

‘What deal?’ Peter forces himself out of his spiral of self-pity to focus on Neal, ‘With Richard?’

‘You don’t understand,’ he says again, shaking his head frantically, ‘Richard was right. Richard was right. Richard was right.’

Peter watches Neal start to tick out of control and starts to grasp what exactly he’s walked into. ‘Right about what, Neal?’ He asks carefully, hoping the answer he has predicted to come out of Neal’s mouth doesn’t.

‘I’m nothing without him.’ Neal says, his eyes glassy and unreadable.

‘My God…’ Peter breathes.

‘How do you think it’s going?’ Jones bites the broken cuticle on his thumb as he watches the silhouette of Neal hover on top of the building. His view of the con man was devoid of almost any detail and so he could only theorise at this point if Neal really was thinking about jumping.

‘Not good.’ Diana retorts, clutching onto her radio and willing for Peter’s voice to come through the speakers with good news.

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s still up there.’ She says, her face contorting into extreme concern, an expression Jones had seldom seen.

‘It’ll be okay,’ Jones says defiantly, ‘Peter will get him down.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Are we really gonna do this again?’ Jones turns to her, feeling his chest burn with anger, ‘Because I have faith in them.’

‘And I don’t?’

He looks away again, realising that they’re arguing even though they both want the same thing. It’s futile and quite frankly disrespectful considering the circumstances. Their friend is stood on the ledge of a building, appearing to consider suicide, and they are debating which of the two has the most faith in him.

He decides not to respond further and Diana seems to have agreed, leaving them both to watch in anxious silence as they awaited the return or demise of their friends, wishing with all of their might for the former.

* * *

 

He didn’t know Neal was this far gone. He didn’t know it was possible. He thought he would walk up to the roof, Neal would see him and rejoice. He would be rescued and everything could go back to normal. But this… he could never have predicted this.

‘You don’t understand. I have to do this alone. Go away.’ Neal repeats his lines again, his eyes unchanged.

‘I do understand. You don’t have to do this.’

‘Yes I do.’ Neal argues back immediately, shaking his head. He can’t understand. He wasn’t there.

‘No you don’t. Richard was wrong.’ He balls up his fists, thinking of that vile man that is sitting in the interrogation room and thinking about how he should be stood up here now instead.

‘Richard was right. Richard was right. Richard was right--”

‘Richard hurt you, Neal. He’s bad and--’

‘Richard will never hurt me. The only way I’m going to get hurt is if I hurt myself, do you understand?’ He spoke like he was reciting a play in high school. He wasn’t asking Peter if he understood, he was repeating something he had been told.

‘Neal--’

‘I’m pathetic.’

‘What?’

‘But I’ll learn.’

‘Neal, wha--’

‘He’s my only friend. He is my world now.’ Peter can only watch in horror as Neal unravels in front of him. ‘I will never be good enough,’ he chokes on his words, ‘But I’ll spend the rest of my days trying.’

‘Listen to me, you don’t have to do this,’ Peter says, feeling hope slip from his fingers along with the tear that slips down his cheek.  _Am I getting through to him at all?_ He asks himself,  _is there any Neal left in there to save?_

‘Prometheus had a great gift. He chose to share his gift with the mortals. The other side. He turned against his own kind, people like him who had the same gift, and gave it away to those unworthy,’ Neal ticked violently, his head whipping to the side, ‘For this you must be punished.’

Fear started to bubble up in Peter; fear of the man who was standing in front of him. Fear that his best friend was lost forever. Fear that he would watch him jump.

_ He can’t be gone. He can’t be. _

‘Neal. Please,’ Peter could think of nothing else to say, desperation seeping out of his pores as he clung to any possibility of saving his friend, ‘don’t do this. For me. For Mozzie. For June and Diana and Jones and…’ the tears are streaming out of his eyes now, ‘For El…please,’ he steps forward and trips to his knees, grazing the heels of his palms.

Neal lurches forward as Peter falls, reaching towards him like he’s going to run to him. But he doesn’t. He has a duty to fulfil.  He watches the man on his knees in silence, his brows pulling up in concern and confusion.

Richard was right. He has to do this. But it’s hurting Peter, something he didn’t expect to care about. Not anymore. He was past that now. He had been shown his true purpose and been given a real reason for his life. Why did it matter that Peter cried?

The two stare at each other in silence for minutes, the wind whipping through their ears the only thing either of them can hear as the rest of the world fades away. The sun peers through ribbons of orange cloud as if presenting Neal and Peter to one another in their current forms. It’s as if they can see through each other in that moment, through their physical expressions and injuries and into what is real. What they have become and what is left.

‘I’m sorry.’ Neal drops his head, feeling all of the energy drain out of him in one breath. The fight was over. For two years he kept up the fight. Maybe he fought weaker towards the end; maybe he argued less and started to accept the pain. Even enjoy it for reasons he could neither comprehend nor come to terms with. But a part of him was always fighting. It may not be the winning side, but it never gave up. Until now.

‘Neal?’ Peter watches him carefully; every flinch, breath and blink is analysed for intent. What’s he going to do? What’s he thinking? Is he coming back or is he lost forever?

The stone crumbles under Neal’s foot as he shifts.

‘Neal!’

* * *

_Neal,_

_ When we first met I didn't think anyone had a lower opinion of you than me. Not at that time. Not with what you were doing and who you were doing it with. You were a criminal, a damn good one, but still a criminal. _

_ Becoming your friend has been one of the greatest experiences of my life, but also one of the hardest. People have told me that you're not worth the pain. The effort or the irritation. These people don't know you like I do. They haven't heard your honest laugh, only the one you use to make them feel they can trust you. They've never seen your true smile, only the one you think they will want to see. They don't know your kindness, generosity and your twisted sense of humour. _

_ I'm writing this letter because I don't think you're ready to hear this yet. But you will be. I promise. One day, after a lot of hard work, you'll be able to see the person that I see again. You will believe that you are worth something again. I know you can't now, but you will. _

_ You're so strong, Neal. Stronger than I think you will ever understand. Far stronger than me. You might think that I'm handling this well now, but that's only because I'm hiding from you. Because you need my strength just like I need yours, and I won't let you down. Not again. _

_ I'm going to put this letter somewhere safe, and give it to you when you're ready to read the words. It's going to take some time, but we'll get you back to where you were some day. I promise you that much. _

_ Just remember that I'll always be there for you, me and all the other people who love you. Because there are a lot of us, more than you think. And we all love you and we'll never give up on you. Once you're ready, I know you'll come back to us. _

_ But until then, we'll wait for you. All of us. For however long it takes, we'll be here. _

_ Your friend, _

_ Peter. _

_ P.S. I know you stole Dr Sayed's watch at your last appointment and I will prove it. _

**Author's Note:**

> If you or someone you know is suffering with depression, abuse or suicide please contact a hotline in your area or go to http://www.sprc.org/organizations to find out more information.


End file.
